Bianco Chapter 2

The Funeral

When we got back to the house with the mail, Zooley - my super annoying, "I'm so-much-more-mature-than-you" big sister - was hysterical.  She opened the door for us and, with mascara that she wasn't allowed to wear running down her face - she cry-stuttered:

"B-b--b-b" and then she grabbed my mom and cried in that way that teenage girls do.

My mom, with one hand still on the stroller, stroked her hair and said "Oh honey, I'm sure it's not so bad.  What happened?  Is it a boy?"

Zooley tried to answer and then just burried her head in my mom's shoulder again and started sobbing hysterically.  Iris, who had been chewing happily on the hair of one of Zooley's old Barbie dolls, looked back and forth from my mom and Zooley, and then she started to cry too.

Girls.

Mom pushed the stroller in over the doorstoop and, with her stroller hand, she pulled the door shut behind us all.  Still holding Zooley, she motioned to me to grab the Kleenex.  I rolled my eyes, but I grabbed the box and bought it over.

"Zoo, Zoo . . ." Mom said, "What on earth could possibly be that bad?"

After a few more dramatic cries and a big nose blow that I should have recorded on my phone, Zooley sat down in the chair and weakly stammered:

"Bart, oh poor B-b-b-art . . ." before burying her head in her hands.

I don't know what came over me.  Maybe it was the way Zooley called me Pipsqueak at the rec department in front of 6 foot tall girl-bully Stacey Jernigan, or maybe it was the fact that Bartholomew ate my gerbil Hank last year, or maybe it was just a combo of the sun and the talking sparrow, but before I could stop myself I blurted out:

"Bartholomew is dead."

Zooley pulled her head out of her hands and just stared at me, mom said "Oh honey!", and Iris began to cry in earnest.  I decided it was time to jet.

"Going over to Sam's!" I called over my shoulder as I pulled at the still moist door handle.

I was 2.2 seconds from freedom when Zooley said: "'You're not going to come to the funeral?"

I paused for a milisecond too long, and Mom said: "Bianco, I think you should stay here to support your sister."

I groaned.  I was so close!

Twenty minutes later, instead of playing Madden with Sam, I found myself in the McGruder's back yard discussing "arrangments" for an old, fat, mean cat.  Mom had given me several I-mean-business looks, so I was trying to appear respectful, but . . . the truth was: I did not think I was going to miss Bartholomew very much.

It's not that I don't like animals.  I have a boxer named Greg, and we are TIGHT.  I mean, he is the ONLY creature on the planet who knows that I wet the bed last Fourth of July (Give a guy some respect! We went to Taco Bell and got to mix our own sodas!).  Greg is awesome.  And I really liked Hank too.  He was a very cute little gerbil and seemed to really like my original rendition of Weezer's Sweater Song (my dad has super excellent taste in old music).

But Bartholomew???  Bartholomew is . . . err, was . . . a different story.

For starters, I am allergic to cats.  Everyone in my family knows this, but they STILL let him in our house.  And that cat made it his job to be everywhere that I was.  I found Bartholomew hair on my pillow, on my clothes, even in the shower.

Also, he was not very nice.  This wasn't the cute little kitty that comes arches its back on your leg and purrs for you to scratch his ears.  This was deamon kitty.  He was a scratcher, and a biter - and HE ATE MY GERBIL.

Finally, Bartholomew wasn't even our cat, but he was always at our place, begging for handouts.  He especially liked my fruit roll ups, and sometimes batted them right out of my hand.  Cats aren't even supposed to like people food!

So, I wasn't altogether sad that we woudn't be seeing Bartholomew anymore, but everyone else sure was. I don't know what Mr. McGruder does during the day, but on the weekend he makes money by playing some bagpipes he inherited from his dad at rich people weddings.  After a proper burial spot was chosen under the old oak tree, Mr. McGruder busted out the bagpipes and played the loudest, saddest song I'd ever heard.  Then Zooley recited some poem she knew from school, and Iris insisted that the Barbie whose hair she had been chewing earlier be buried next to the box containing Bartholomew.  Ms. McGruder said some prayer about cats going to heaven, and Zooley began to cry again.  My mom put a comforting arm around her.  I wiped some sweat off of my lip and tried to look solemn, which wasn't too hard since I had a headache from the bagpipes.

With a ceremonial salute, Mr. McGruder picked up the shovel, and was about to drop the first clod of dirt over Bartholomew's box when Iris, who had wandered closer to the MacGruder's porch, screamed.  Mr. McGruder dropped the shovel, dirt went flying through the air, and everyone ran to Iris.  We got there just in time to see the long black tail of a snake slither under the porch.

My mom grabbed Iris, tears running down her ashen face, and everyone gathered close - making sure that she was just scared and not bitten.  Mrs. McGruder was already on the phone, asking the operator for the number of an exterminator.  Mr. McGruder was peering under the porch where the snake disappeared, his bare legs sticking out underneath his ceremonial kilt, and Zooley - only Zooley - was wandering back to the soon-to-be cat cemetary under the oak tree.  She bent on her knees near the still-open grave and - after rubbing her eyes twice - called back to the group in a hollow, deadpan voice:

"He's gone."

As everyone ran back to the grave to see for themselves the vacant hole, I watched a sparrow hop from the tree to the nearby fence, and I thought I heard a quiet call:

Be-ware, be-ware, be-ware the night.  Barthomew is de-ead!